Coming Home
by lilBlueDragon
Summary: Moby Dick is my favorite story. Jessica has been my OC since 1994. Ten years later, she's back to visit again. Rated M for sailor swearing.
1. Coming Home

**DISCLAIMER: I really am seriously in love with this book...I read it first in second grade, and it remains very near and dear to my heart, especially since Gregory Peck played Captain Ahab in the movie...(sighs blissfully)...Anyway, I don't own anything except Jessica...she was and is my second fanfiction character. **

**As a note of interest, I really was seriously thinking about doing a thesis on Moby Dick, but ended up choosing Children's Literature instead...a thesis which Adelaide gets to work on in my Lord of the Rings fanfiction (go read that one, too!). **

**Reviews are always welcome!**

Coming Home

Prologue

"Two –thirds of this terraqueous globe are the Nantucketer's. For the sea is his; he owns it, as emperors own empires…the Nantucketer, he alone resides and riots on the sea; he alone, in the Bible language, goes down to it in ships; to and fro ploughing it as his own special plantation. _There_ is his home; _there_ lies his business…for years he knows not the land, so that when he comes to it at last, it smells like another world…" (_Moby Dick_, Chapter 14, Nantucket)

Chapter 1: Prayers

_Stubb, the Inn_

A-hem! Hem! Clear my throat! I've been thinking, though there's not much thinking to do these days in between voyages—aye, who wants to think? Thinking is to me but a waste of the brain. It's put to better use with a wench on each arm, an ale in one hand, and a pipe in the mouth. Strange, though, I've not felt like doing much of any sort of thing lately. God! I wish the little tide would return. I'm aching for a bit of change in the weather. Stormy eye? Yes, thank ye, that'll do nicely. A bit of stormy eye, and fair-weathered skin, that's more my ticket. Sunshine? Yes, thank ye, I'll take that, too, and plenty of it. What's sunshine on a voyage but a sweet-haired dancing girl?

_Flask, the Alehouse_

I'm drunk. No use denying it. But I must be sober enough to realize that I am drunk. God! I need to go home. Wait, I haven't got one. Maybe I'll chip in with Stubb at the Inn. There are worse places to go. I won't sleep on the damn ship again. Then again, maybe I will. There's something in the wind tonight. Look! See, the stars. Then the crow's nest. The mast. The mizzen. The deck. The hold's below, and the sea, and the sea-floor, and then God knows what's under that. From heaven down! Like lightning. Or an angel. Either one, or maybe twain. Would I'd see that again. I need to sleep. The ship looks peaceful. I'll berth there tonight.

_Starbuck, his Home_

Oh God! I voyage in two weeks to the Pacific. Again, I and Stubb, and Flask, and all the crew, beneath the command of my Captain, shall journey henceforth to those waters which hold the priceless spermaceti. Shall leviathan then hold me captive-bound? Nay, for I have always returned, and yet I have never stayed for more than a year, with my wife and child. Mary, my Mary! Little Jim, my son! Soon also I shall have a daughter, as my wife has promised…may she be as beautiful as the sea, as gentle as its surf, and as free-spirited as its life in the wilderness! And where have I seen such beauty before? Oft I saw it in my wife, but there was once another whom I knew. I wish my daughter to be like her, in every way. Yes, she was my daughter, now I think of it. She was a daughter to me, and a boon companion if ever a man had a female companion separate from his wife. Was our relationship sinful? I know not. We had not the relations of a man and woman, for she was but a child, and yet our captain…well! Let it rest. Far be it from me to criticize my captain on affairs of the heart! She was his soul-mate, but never was a girl more loved than our Jessie! Yes, Jessica! I see thee now, I think of thee often, as I have lately, unlike any other time. Thy visage is ever burned into my memory, aye, the vision of thee on that day when ye took me by the hand, rested it upon thy soft cheek, and gazed into my eyes with simple, childlike wonder and asked me what heaven was for me. Aye, and I told thee it was home. Home, as ever dear a place could be, and when ye asked me what home was, I told thee Nantucket, and ye laughed, and told me, Nay! But home is where the water runs, and if this sea be water always running, is not my home the sea? But thou hast run from it, and we have not seen thee for years. Wilt thou not come home, Jessica? Wilt thou not come to the sea again? Come back to me, aye, come back to Starbuck, Stubb, Flask, and all the crew, and thy captain, whom I know thou dost love, and who lovest thee, girl. Oh Great God, where art Thou? Wilt Thou bring our Jessica back? Draw her to the sea? Bring her home…wilt Thou…?


	2. Loomings Rehashed

Chapter 2: Loomings Rehashed

[A young woman is sitting in a library between stacks of books and some scattered candy-wrappers. She is leafing through a huge brown-bound book with tired fingers, and her eyes are red and sleepy-looking. Once every five minutes she yawns, shakes her head, and then blinks restlessly, rubbing at her arms to wake herself up. Suddenly, her cell-phone rings. She answers.]

Hello? Oh, hi, Mr. Bates. *_What the hell do you want now, you nasty dipshit?_* What? Oh…no, I didn't. Mr. Bates, Donald is supposed to sign those incident reports. He told me he'd sign them. All I had to do was fill them out—and I did put my name on the line. No, that's Donald's job. *_Mr. Bates, how would I know? I'm not responsible for Donald_.* No, I don't know his phone number. We don't even interact all that often for it to be that import—all right, okay, I'm sorry. *_Geez_*. In the library. *_Holy shit, baking cookies. What the hell do you think I'm doing in a fucking library?_* I'm _studying_, Mr. Bates, I have a thesis, you know. It's my day off, Mr. Bates. I'm sorry, I can't come in today. *_Why? Because I'm tired, Mr. Bates, that's why, and I've had it up to here with your fucking issues_.* No, I'll be in tomorrow. Yes, I have the reports. *_In my head, that is. Got to type those up, damn it._* A homeschooling group? In the summer? *_Whatever, jackass_.* Okay, I'll take them. What about the exhibit? I cleaned it. Yes, Mr. Bates. Okay. Gotcha. *_Want an ice-cream soda with that, Mr. Bates?_* Good-bye.

I swear to God, I don't get any peace anymore. I'm so tired. Ahab was right. The damn white whale stinks. Greenpeace is fucking stupid. And I want to spit on Melville's grave right now, if not in Mr. Bates' eye. I need a vacation. I just need to get out…I need to go somewhere, away from all this. Maybe I'll just walk down to the beach. I kind of miss everyone. What'd I say? Who's "everyone"? I'm _so_ going senile.


	3. Hi! Call Me Crazy

Chapter 3: Hi! Call Me Crazy…

I came back to New Bedford today.

Well, technically you could say I never left. I was living there for the summer, with a volunteer job at the whaling museum, studying for my thesis, which happened to concern whaling.

I haven't been back to my old grounds for years…since 1999, to be exact. Since that time, my imagination had wandered from world to world, and was supposed to be presently lingering in Middle Earth with lover-boy Frodo. But my mind was not on Middle Earth…it was on my thesis. When my imagination is suspended in "limbo," it goes haywire and often latches onto old flames or new infatuations.

But I have to say, I wasn't fully prepared for what happened on Friday evening at 7:00 p.m. when I left the library and started walking down to the beach.

As I stumbled sleepily through the streets down to the beach, I suddenly became aware of a sharp wind that carried an unusual smell with it—one that was familiar, but that I hadn't smelled for years. The light of the sun was just beginning to fade behind me, and I put out my hand to feel past a building blocking my way. Now, I know New Bedford like the back of my hand, and what should have been a fishing house was not that, but rather a stack of barrels. I pressed against them, and put my cheek against them—they were cold and smooth, and smelled strongly of oil—whale oil. I backed up and suddenly bumped up against another grime-streaked oil barrel. There was just enough light to see that I was sitting close to the harbor that I knew so well—but was it? The harbor wasn't filled with sailboats, fishing crafts, and tour ships anymore—there were great ships here, with furled sails. The docks were worn and wooden; the streets were cobbled, and rows and rows of oil barrels faced me.

I blinked.

Where was I, on this dark and stormy night?

No, for real, it was dark, and if it wasn't stormy, it was about to be. Thunder growled over my head, and water plopped down on my nose. Well, nobody likes to be in the rain, so I turned around and began looking for a place to pop into. Then I could enquire about where I was and what the time was, and so on and so forth.

I think I realized I was still in New Bedford when Ishmael ran headlong into me. How did I know it was Ishmael? I didn't, at first. He was looking for shelter, too, and running up, while I was running down. We collided, and I fell in a puddle.

"I beg your pardon!" the young man leapt to his feet and extended his hand. As I gripped it, light fell over his face, and I nearly yelled. This was none other than Ishmael, the narrator of Herman Melville's _Moby Dick_, on which I was writing my stupid thesis. And anyone who needs an explanation between "Ishmael" and "New Bedford" also needs therapy ; both pertain to probably the most well-known novel in the history of literary achievements, bar Tolkien. Made sense as to why I'd be thrust back into New Bedford because of a dumb ol' fifty-page paper. But there was more to it than that. I hadn't seen Ishmael or New Bedford for over ten years. To make a long story short, I'd been in love with _Moby Dick_ since second grade, and carried that crush up to sixth grade until I started "seeing" other men in other worlds. I hadn't returned to New Bedford since then, leaving everybody in the dust. Seeing Ishmael again was like a whiff of fresh, clean air, and suddenly, I realized that I was overjoyed.

I leaped up and gave Ishmael the biggest hug of his life. I think I startled him.

"Miss, please!" he put up his hands and tried to pry me off. "This isn't seemly…I beg your pardon, but I haven't saved you from certain death, have I? Now, let's be reasonable!" he held me at arm's length, with a sort of smile. I don't think he recognized me from hoo-hah. "Got a place for the night, miss? Where are your folks? They'll be missing you. Let's see if we can—" Ishmael stopped dead. He peered into my face, and suddenly took me by the arm, dragging me out of the street and into some decent lamplight. He still had me by the arm, but he let go quickly as his eyes scoured my face.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "Saints preserve us all…you aren't a ghost, are you?" He reached out again and kind of poked me, as if expecting his hand to go straight through. "You have her face, but you're taller, and have a weathered look about you, as though you've…God! Jessica! Mercy, have you grown up?"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. Leave it to Ishmael to say something like that on the meeting of old friends! It was so typical.

"Oh, you dumbass!" I cheered, and hugged him again. "I had to sometime, right?"

"But you…you're…you're really…you're back! You've come back! Our Jessica, back! Girl, you've been gone too long!"

"I know." I felt stupid making conversation in the middle of a storm, with the rain pouring down and soaking us both. But I was strangely content, strangely happy.

Oh, I wish I could talk forever about that meeting! I felt as though I were greater than the empress I was in other countries, as if I were back to my humble beginnings here, in New Bedford, where I had first started out on my adventures into the wilderness. Here I had learned to sing, dance, tell stories, write, and love. Here was where it all had begun for me, on this fisherman's wharf, this whaling harbor, this smelly, fish-scented dock! I hugged Ishmael again, and we embraced for a long time, he not wanting to let me go, and I just wanting to bask in the reality of this sweet memory.

"So it really is you!" Ishmael said. The smile on his face broadened, and his eyes sparkled. "I can't believe it! It's been so long! I can't believe you're back! Look at you, you've grown so much! You're practically a woman, now! What have you been doing all this time? Why didn't you visit? And where are you staying? Why have you come back to New Bedford now?"

"First off," I said practically. "Let's get out of the rain, okay? I'm not standing here yakking my head off and getting soaked at the same time, savvy?"

"Oh, alright," he agreed, as if it were a very difficult thing I was asking of him. "Do you remember the way?"

"Sort of…kind of…well, okay, not completely." I felt embarrassed. A year in each world I visit is a minute in my real world, so I had visited New Bedford over a thousand times…and yet I had forgotten which way to go. I took Ishmael's hand, and we ran through the streets together, casting our eyes about for a suitable inn to spend the night. We went around to several inns—most which were either too expensive, too religious, or too black. I am neither rich or very religious—and I am definitely not black. Besides, this was Quaker territory. God forbid Ishmael drag me into a Quaker settlement. We finally stopped to rest beneath the sign of a whale with a lance in his heart. The wooden billboard creaked as it swung in the nighttime gale.

"The Spouter Inn—Peter Coffin," Ishmael read aloud. "How does that sound to you?"

I nodded. Anything sounded good to me right now. I knew that this was the only inn we could ever enter because of the way the story ran, but I was too tired to acknowledge any familiarity. We entered, and a roaring fire in the corner immediately melted away the chill and rain. I kept my cap pulled down over my face. I wasn't sure yet if I wanted recognition or not.

The Spouter Inn, as I remembered it, was _not_ a fancy bed and breakfast, but it was a comfortable place where any sailor could berth as though he were Poseidon himself. The woodwork of each beam and table was inlaid with the scrimshaw of sailors in and out of New Bedford. The smell of sea-salt lingered in clothing, wood, mugs and plates, and settled even in your ale. There was always a man with a sea-shanty handy (try saying that three times fast!) and a ballad or two to go along with his accordion or pipe. The sailors were always ready to dance their jigs, and, as I recall, to sing and "split their lungs out." The inn was a cozy place where you could kick back, relax, and enjoy a beer and a smoke or two while listening to the dramatic (and grossly over-exaggerated) tales of the sailors.

Peter Coffin was the landlord, and a merrier fellow you never saw. In many ways, he reminded me of Jack Falstaff from Shakespeare's _Henry IV_, although Mr. Coffin was a more prudent man, and never drank more than what he could handle at a time. He ran a business, knew it, and was proud of it. So it was to him that Ishmael and I addressed ourselves. We hurried back to the bar, where Mr. Coffin was busy wiping plates. Ishmael and I waited patiently, and then, as Ishmael turned, he caught sight of a few sailors watching him silently, analyzing him from tip to toe. Ishmael quailed a little under their stare, but I just gave them a swift nod.

"Well, well, me fine lad, what can I do for ye?" Peter Coffin addressed Ishmael.

"Rum, please." said Ishmael.

"Rum it is!" Coffin produced what looked like a lined beaker. "There's the penny mark, half a glass is half a shillin', and so off the top to the half-crown mark."

"The penny-mark…er, half a crown," Ishmael changed his mind as the landlord gave him a surprised and shame-on-you look.

"And for the lad?"

It took me a few minutes to realize that Mr. Coffin was speaking to my fine self, and I also realized, in that short span of three seconds, that I did indeed look like a young lad of perhaps fifteen. Nobody in New Bedford had seen me for over ten years, and I had grown from the spritely young lass of twelve into a budding woman of twenty-two—living in an apartment in present-day New Bedford and studying whaling for a thesis. I wore jeans, a comfortable cotton shirt from Target, a pea-coat, and a French cap pulled sideways. I had absolutely no makeup on, and I looked, quite frankly, like a boy. But to answer Mr. Coffin.

"Rum, too," I replied to the landlord. "The…the…the half-crown mark." Oh boy, did I want rum. Malibu, please, with coke.

"Bless ye, lad, why don't ye try the penny-mark first?"

"Uh…no thanks, I'll take the half-crown mark."

Ishmael's eyes widened. Apparently he was about to discover a rather interesting revelation about Jessica DeMonfort—hey, I'm not a little girl anymore, and yes, I drink, so shove off it and give me my fucking rum. The landlord filled me up while Ishmael paid for both drinks.

"Y'ain't got a problem with sharing a bed for the night, have ye?"

Ishmael took a deep drink and shook his head.

"Goin' whalin'?"

"That is my intention."

"How about the lad?"

"Aye." When I spoke, my voice was hardly my own. "I intend to ship out of Nantucket." Yeah, and that's about all I knew at that moment. Where did that come from?

"Where ye from, lad? Hast thou folk here in New Bedford?"

I shook my head. I wanted to be honest. "Nay, my folk are up New Hampshire way, but I'm no stranger here. Been out with the mariners a few times afore this."

"Ye've gone a-whalin' before then, have ye?"

"Aye." God's truth, yes, I had been whaling. And, technically, I was still "whaling," if you could call researching sperm whales and whaling history "whaling." I was hunting a most elusive foe. I decided to be a smart-ass. "I understand the Nantucket market is quickly overtaking the New Bedford market for whale oil," I said, eager to show off a little knowledge. "But that the Quaker religion still burns brighter than any other candle here in New Bedford."

"Aye, lad, you've a right comment, there. I can see thou art no native of this land, and yet ye speak as if ye know it."

"I do." I swallowed some rum.

"Never seen thee afore this, though, lad."

"I've not made it a hobby to stick around long."

"But I've not seen thy face. How canst thou say ye know New Bedford—or Nantucket—if ye live up North? I tell thee, lad, ye need permission to sail these waters—thee and thy companion. I take it thou art no native?" this last question was directed at Ishmael.

"No, I'm a stranger here." Ishmael's eyes were all alight at wanting to learn.

"Then you'll have to have permission!"

"Permission?"

"Aye, from us." Ishmael and I turned, and beheld the seamen who had been eyeing us earlier. Stubb was among them—Stubb, that rascal of a second mate who said that laughter was a cure-all for anything! He was a tough ol' cookie, but underneath that salty, sea-hardened exterior was the core of human kindness, a wise old man with a young heart of gold. He was, like, marshmallow-man in disguise. Stubb was like the big brother I'd never had, and a dreadful flirt. I could remember the days when I had him wrapped around my finger like bread around a corndog. But we were good friends. I wanted to hug him, but something held me back.

"The sea is ours," continued Stubb, honing in on Ishmael. "Nobody but us is what commands it, and the whale is ours." He took a long swig from his mug and poked it at Ishmael. "Do you dispute that?"

The inn was suddenly quiet as all the men looked over at us, expectant. Ishmael turned bright red, looking from face to face. He had landed in an alien country where the men were hard as nails. This gave them the right to the sea because they lived and breathed with her like a man with a wife. The sea was their home. Ishmael needed permission to do the same. He swallowed.

"I do not."

"Good." Stubb nodded. "Then you have permission to sail our seas!" Stubb raised his mug and hailed the other sailors. "Drink to this boy, eh mates! Drink!"

"Aye!" the men cheered, raised their mugs, and swallowed their ale. Stubb came along and gave Ishmael a friendly, man-to-man backslap.

Dinner was served to us, and we sat down with the men to enjoy a hearty meal. The landlord served us hot clam chowder—New England's finest—with thick furls of hot, soft bread, hunks of cheese, slices of crisp September apples, and mugs of foaming beer. I swear, I drank five glasses and still held the alcohol pretty damn good. We sang songs with the men and danced until our cheeks were ruddy, and our fingertips tingled with the glow of rushing blood and the vitality of rum. Never once did I take off my cap, heighten my voice, or give away any sign of my womanhood.

"Landlord!" Ishmael nodded at the men, smiling. "Which is the man I am to sleep with tonight?"

"Oh, he ain't among them," Peter Coffin wiped a mug, a distinctive twinkle in his eye. "He'll be here afore long. He's out tonight sellin' his head."

Ishmael nearly choked on his beer. "His _WHAT_?!"

"Sellin' his head! Though I told him it'd be difficult to sell. Market's overstocked, y'know."

"With _what_?!"

"With _heads_, to be sure!"

Ishmael looked positively aghast. But before he could ask any more questions, the men, who had struck up a sea shanty, began to dance, and Stubb, doing a jig, grabbed Ishmael and pulled him into the circle. I fell into step beside them. Now, I have two left feet—I can't do a lot of dancing in real life, but whenever I was in New Bedford, or anywhere else where I was myself, I could dance just about anything, and the movements of feet here were familiar. We went around a couple times, and then I hopped out of the circle to catch my breath. It was then that I saw IT.

"What's that?" I asked suddenly, pointing to a dark, dusty form in the corner. It was covered by a dark sheet, and spiderwebs had gathered in the crevices. The landlord blinked, and squinted over at it.

"Well, now, we haven't unveiled that for over ten years. Sure you've never come in here and seen it afore this? If you've shipped out of New Bedford or Nantucket, you must have seen it before."

"Never," I confessed, not really knowing what the hell he was talking about. "May I take a look?"

"Help yourself, lad. It's curious enough."

I noticed that a lot of the sailors were watching me as I came over to the corner and lifted a flap of the dark tarp. Realization hit me as light fell over the dusty, unused form of my old boom box and stacks of old CDs, tapes, and my guitar. This was where I had played music, sang, and danced for the gentlemen in the tavern. I blinked. I was suddenly feeling very homesick. With a twist of pain in my stomach I recalled the songs I'd sung, all of them, and the lights and the applause from the men. I had mounted the bar, guitar in hand, and I had been the New Bedford rock star every time.

Tears were forming fast, and I couldn't let the men see. I quickly dropped the flap, pretended to wipe my face free of dust, and returned to the bar.

"That's strange, sure enough," I said casually. "What is it?"

"Reminders," Stubb said behind me, swigging his ale. "Only reminders of a painful past, lad. We don't speak of it here in this inn or anywhere else in New Bedford. Nobody mentions it, now. So, lad, if you please, you'll not be bringing up the subject anymore."

I nodded, feeling very uncomfortable. There was no doubt but every sailor there connected the music with me, and I was a painful memory because I'd walked out on them, dumped them all, for something more exciting, which, in my youth, I had seen as such. I felt a hot flush in my cheeks, and then I said no more, but rather listened to the rest of the men as they sang and talked.

At some point in the feasting and revelry, talk was drawn to whales, for Ishmael wanted to know all about them and the stories the men had to tell him. He pointed to a picture on the wall. A giant sperm whale flashed evil in the lightning-thunder as it leaped an entire ship in a gale.

"Can whales do that?" Ishmael asked wonderingly.

"Why bless me lad, a whale can do anything!" Stubb roared, smiling in his cheerful manner. "A whale can swallow whole ships live and spit out the toothpicks, and stow whole whaleboats to Davy Jones! A whale can rise up and come down on ye…like a mountain put to sea. Mind lad, if God ever wanted to be a fish, he's be a whale, mind that, he'd be a whale!"

But as Stubb rose up, he suddenly paused, and the inn grew quiet. The men peered out the window. Even in the howling gale outside, with thunder booming and rain pouring down, the distinct sound of tip-TAP-tip-TAP could be heard along the cobblestone walkways. I went to the window and pulled back the curtains. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the streets of New Bedford, and unveiling, if for a brief moment, the figure of a tall, dark man walking swiftly down the street. But where there should have been two legs, one was replaced by an ivory limb from the knee down.

"Ahab," muttered Stubb. I let the curtain fall, my heart pounding.

"Who's Ahab?" Ishmael asked.

Stubb turned and eyed him critically. "Captain Ahab to you."

"Well, who's Captain Ahab?"

Stubb smiled slyly. "Aye," he muttered. "Ahab's Ahab!" He turned from Ishmael, leaving him to look out the window. "Music!" he cried. "Music!"

A soft sea shanty filled the room. But I heard little of it. I slipped from Ishmael's side, and filtered out of the inn like a shadow. Rain poured down, and the night was black as ink, but I hurried down the streets of New Bedford once again in the direction that Ahab had taken. The street turned onto Nathan Avenue, where some very distinguished houses were settled. The avenue took me up a slight hill, from the top of which you could see the harbor of New Bedford. Here, on this little hill, were all the well-to-do houses of captains, mates, and respectable men of New Bedford. In the summertime, you could see the cheerful little New England houses blooming with garlands of roses, each little garden an Eden of paradise, filled with herbs, flowers, and twining glories to accent an already-charming abode of peace and prosperity. Such was the house that Ahab entered, all alone. I saw him enter, and I saw his shadow in the window above, but when the lights turned out, and all was quiet except for the thunder and the sound of my own breathing, I realized that the rain had stopped, and I was all alone, a young woman out on the New Bedford streets at night, staring at a house which could have been empty. But I knew it was not.

Ahab, in his House

Damn the White Whale to the most tormented pits of hell!

Can I not then sleep? Aye, even sleep is gone from Ahab, when he needs it most. For if I do not have my sleep, then how shall I have strength to voyage and so slay the White Whale? I sound most prudent, though ever prudent I have been, now I think Ahab thinks too much. That's strange, for Ahab never thought before; aye, all his actions flowed from his feelings, whether physical or emotional. This storm's a devil tonight, but it sings like an angel, as though the rain were sweet manna from heaven. Drop bread by beggar's paths? Aye! Angels weep for me, yet Ahab feels naught; he only thinks tonight. Let me not dream, but nay, if I dream, let it be sweet to me. All else is but a tangent and iron obstacle in my way! Listen to that thunder! Aye, what's that they call me? Old Thunder, that's my nickname, at least to the crazed wharf rats. And old thunder is ever more remembered than new thunder, which is quickly forgotten. Nay, but—hark, there's a lad outside my door. Look, how he stands there looking at my home! 'Twere as if he comes a-begging, but nay, that's no beggar. A sailor, perhaps? He's just a boy! Why does he look at my house so? Could he be wanting something? A message to deliver? Why! How now, that I should have such an omen! What does it mean, then? How sweet his face! Nay, that art no devil, no rude omen come to haunt me, but an angel come to guide me. Heaven sent! Like lightning, aye, from heaven to earth. Thou art no devil, lad. But if thou art angel, come up and speak to Ahab, and give him direction to the hated White Whale! Come, give Ahab thy blessing, and—hark! See, he's gone now. Like a shadow in the night, he's disappeared. Aye, but the rain has stopped…


	4. The Sermon

Chapter 4: The Sermon

When I woke up the next morning, I was snug in my bed at the Spouter Inn, and all I could remember was walking back in the mists of the morning, sitting for five minutes among the barrels at the stock-yard, and then walking into the Spouter Inn, finishing my ale, and throwing up. My head felt as though I'd been tossed in a storm, and the rest of me was like a bowl of soggy Rice Krispies. I didn't want to get out of bed. Nope. Not one bit.

You see, I was a senior in a college that demanded 6:30 a.m. wakeup, and 12:00 lights-out, although, being a senior, I had a thesis which engaged my attention nearly 24-7, so I was hard-pressed for sleep, and my entire being was worked ragged. So the minute you put me in bed for more than three hours, I started feeling like I'd run around the world in a week.

Someone knocked at my door, and I leaned over in bed to throw up in the bucket poor Mr. Coffin had provided me with. I felt like shit, no kidding. But when Mrs. Sal Coffin entered, I sat up.

"Look, there's a dear!" Sal fluttered about me like a mother hen scolding her chick. She had brought a pitcher of water, a basin, soap, and some clean clothes. "Ye shouldn't have drunk so much for such a wee lass, and then taken a turn out in the soaking rain! What were ye thinking?"

"Following someone. Thought he looked familiar," I muttered.

"Well, a pretty fix thou art in now! Here, I brought thee some clothes. Ye'll have need of them. Thou art, I take it, no boy."

I must have looked pretty dumb. I just kind of stared at her, feeling sick, and when the meaning of her words sunk in, I heaved a sigh and fell back against the pillows.

"When my Peter took a look at thee and realized ye for a girl—and not just any girl, I know—I thought he would keel over and die! He looked as though he'd seen a ghost. A good thing the rest of the men had gone to bed, else any witnesses might have also been blown away. Thou art back! I have not seen thee for so long! When did ye get here?"

"Last night. I came in with the other guy…Ishmael. Hey, where's he at?"

"Ye need not fret for thy friend," Mrs. Coffin assured me gently. "My husband put him a-bed with that cannibal harpooner from the South Seas. How they shouted last night! Thank goodness ye missed that!"

"What happened?" I groggily rose and began washing my face. I knew the story perfectly well, but I wanted to hear this one.

"My husband put thy friend to bed about twelve. He had stayed up for a good portion of the night singing and dancing with the sailors, and was one of the last to go to bed. A few minutes later, in comes Mr. Queequeg, and he goes into the room, and Lord help us! Mercy! Saints preserve us all, you should have heard the ruckus! 'Help! Mercy! Angels! Coffin!' he yells—that's your Ishmael—and all the time the infernal harpooner is screaming at the top of his lungs: 'Who the devil you? Speak! Speak, or dammee, I kill-ee!' Lucky my husband wasn't too far gone; he rushed into the room, and told Queequeg to relax. 'You sabee me, I sabee you. This man sleep-ee you, you sabee?' Well, and then those two went to sleep, and the next morning—poof! They are as chummy as a limpet and a rock!"

"Oh, that's good," I groaned and threw up again. Mrs. Coffin hurried around me.

"Bless the girl, you've taken chill, I'll warrant. I'll send thee a hot toddy straight away. Thou wilt go nowhere today! Into the bed with thee, and I'll be sending breakfast direct."

"Please, Mrs. Coffin," I croaked. "Don't tell anyone…er, about me. I'd rather…I think I don't want anybody to know yet."

She nodded and patted my hands tenderly. "Don't thee fret. I've already told Peter to keep his mouth locked, and thee have naught to fear from me! Really, as though I could ever do thee wrong! I'm happy thou art back. Now, stay there in bed, and I'll bring thee food and drink. But I have clothes for thee, too. If ye truly want to be inconspicuous, ye'd do better to dress as a young woman, and no boy. That's what the sailors look for, ye know—ever since ye left, they've been searching for a girl in lad's clothes. So dress as a woman, and fool them all!"

I had to admit the lady had style, and it was probably a good idea. But for the moment, I felt sick, and couldn't do much more than smile weakly, nod, and throw up again.

I stayed in bed the entire day and slept. And it wasn't like I wanted to; I really wanted to get out and walk around. That'll teach me to drink so much rum; I had forgotten, too, that "whaler's alcohol" was a lot stronger than I had imagined. When I was younger, I'd never thought I'd touch rum; now I was crazy about it, and hadn't the slightest inkling that sailors drank such strong stuff. It was even stronger than the brews of Rohan, and those are insane.

Several times Mrs. Coffin came in with meals. I never touched them. I was so tired the entire town could have been burning, and I'd never know it. Peter Coffin later told me he'd never seen me sleep that much; the Jessica he remembered was always "an active child." Huh, well, the active child was now a stressed-out senior in college, and I'd be damned if I was going to run around pell-mell the day after I get into New Bedford, without a scrap of thesis work or a single book to drive me bananas. I woke up several times on my own and reveled in being able to sleep so much without interruption.

When I finally did get up, it was early Sunday morning, and light was just beginning to peep over the rooftops of the hill where Ahab lived. The darkness still shrouded the Spouter Inn, but I was frisky as a puppy. All nausea had left me, and I rose happily, bathed myself, and dressed in the beautiful gown which Sal Coffin had provided me with. This was Civil War era, or at least a few years before it, and I loved the hoopskirts and bonnets. These kinds of costumes just took my breath away. I arranged my hair as befitted a young woman living in New Bedford, and stowed some of my things away beneath the bed. Then I tripped merrily down the stairs to bid good-morning to the landlord and his lovely wife.

Mr. Coffin was doling out coffee to the sailors, who looked astonished at seeing a young lady at a whalemen's inn. Luckily for me, however, nobody recognized me. I had grown up so much that I hardly looked like the Jessica anyone remembered. Sal Coffin pulled me aside for my breakfast, and I spoke with her and Peter quietly.

"I don't know how long I'm here for," I admitted. "But I'm hoping—now that I _am_ here—to stay for a while. And I'd like to keep news of myself quiet until a better moment."

"Will ye be sailin', as ye said last night?" Peter Coffin could hardly contain his excitement, even when his wife gave him a shove. "What, woman? She always sails!"

"That's the idea," I agreed. "Out from Nantucket."

"She's just been over a cold," Sal exclaimed sharply. "She'll not sail yet, if I have anything to say about it! Now, dove, how are you feeling this morning? Any better? Ye look like a fresh spring chick."

"I _feel _a lot better."

"But you'll not walk about today, surely?" Sal asked. When I indicated that I intended to do precisely that, she shook her head, sighing. "What funny creatures young girls are! Can't believe I was ever one myself. Ye have all the energy of a lad in the summer. But take heed, lass; it's the Lord's Day. Best prepare thyself for church, eh?"

Now, I am a practicing Catholic, but I had no objection to attending a mariner's service. After all, it wasn't really worship, per se, but rather a religious lecture. And since there was nothing in the Ten Commandments about attending religious lectures, I decided to go. Besides, I always went to that little mariner's chapel, the Seamen's Bethel, where Father Mapple gave his thunderous but remarkably sound homilies/religious lectures.

Sal Coffin offered to accompany me to the Bethel, but I declined politely, saying that I needed to find Ishmael and Queequeg. They were going the same way, if I was not so mistaken. So I slipped on my white gloves and stepped out into the New Bedford streets, bustling with activity. Women walked to and fro with baskets on their arms, laden with sweet-smelling bread, bottles of herbs and spices, and fish bought at market. Men walked along—the men of New Bedford were always a fine sight for a woman to see because they were almost all sailors—except for the Greenies—and ripped. The folk of the sea, I liked to call the people here, because they were noble, handsome, and almost as varied and powerful as the sea itself. As I walked lingeringly along the port, the briny sea-smell mingled with the early morning Massachusetts air, and I inhaled deeply, listening to the hustle and bustle of New Bedford inhabitants, harbor bells, and lusty sailors. Oh, this was close to heaven, indeed!

I stopped along the dock to look at the ships. They were anchored at their moorings, nestling like hens all in a pretty little row. A few small sailboats cruised behind them in the bay. Beneath my feet, under the harbor, I could see small schools of fish and the solid-grounded sea anemones and clusters of rock oysters and mussels. A woman passed me with a basket of wool. The air was filled with the scent of fish. I stood on the dock and leaned against its pier, winking at a sea gull. This rather annoying creature winked right back and then flew away, shrieking to his brothers that Jessica DeMonfort was back. The animals had a strange grape-vine system; if one knew now, the entire ocean would know in about a week.

I did an about-face and started walking down the road again to the Seaman's Bethel. I passed many people, whose faces I recognized, but was unable to speak. A few of them stared at me, and one sailor, who was whittling, nearly cut off his finger as he turned around to watch me walk past. If this was the reaction I evoked in petticoats, imagine what an LBD and four-inch heels would do! I grinned cheerfully and continued on.

I spotted Ishmael about ten seconds later. He was hard to miss because nobody in their right mind who lived in New Bedford—except Ishmael—would be walking with a six-foot-five-inch native dude tattooed six ways from Sunday. They were talking, as they normally did, and didn't see me at first. They probably wouldn't have recognized me, all dolled up in a gown. I looked quite the young woman, and no Jessica from anyone's memory. I think it was Queequeg who spotted me first. The results were hysterical. He let out this wild native yell that startled the women passers-by. In two quick strides, he caught me up in his powerful, bear-like arms, and hugged me until I felt myself turning blue in the face.

"Queequeg—gracious!—for God's sake!—Queequeg! Put the lady down!" gasped Ishmael. "You're turning heads, Queequeg—the gaoler will be along quick!—Put her down, I say!" Then he let off pulling at Queequeg, gasped, and rubbed his eyes. As the giant native placed me back on solid ground, I noticed that our little scene had attracted a small crowd, and a few women were staring, horrified, as if unable to comprehend such savage, bestial affections. I played it cool and embraced Queequeg again, soundly, and Ishmael was certain to raise his voice.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Je—Alice! We were hoping to find you here. Coming to church with us?"

"Aye," I spoke in Quaker terms. "I was hoping to see thee here, too. Queequeg, friend, how art thou? Thou art healthy as ever, I trust!"

While the big cannibal seemed confused by my speech, it seemed to satisfy the little crowd, which immediately dispersed. I let out the breath I'd been holding and grinned at Queequeg in a more Jessica-like manner.

"Whew. I hate the public. What's up, Queequeg, my man?"

That was decided for him, and he clasped me in an embrace from behind, burying his face in my hair in the cannibalistic, brotherly sign of affection. I grinned at Ishmael.

"You didn't recognize me, didja?"

"I must admit, you look rather…well, I never expected to see you in such clothing. I mean, I'm always used to seeing you in the garb of a man."

"Same here."

"But very beautiful."

"Thanks. It still doesn't beat a pair of jeans, but I'll use any excuse for dressing up."

"Excuse? Do you not want your identity known, yet?"

"No, I don't think so…not until we're on board the Pe—a ship. Come on, everybody would know. I got dumped here, so now I have to reveal myself in style. Now, get this lump off me, and let's go hear the service."

As we walked along, I was surprised at how quickly my eyes and feet became familiar with the paths which I had so often tread in my youth. The street corners, names, and avenues recalled themselves to me as if I had lived in New Bedford all my life. Houses, faces, smells, and other signs of recognition burst in my mind until an overwhelming sense of home sang its way into my heart. I couldn't help smiling, and Ishmael marked it.

"It's good to be back, isn't it?" he asked.

"Oh yes! Very, very much so. I've missed this place."

"And yet you were gone for so long! I've never asked why."

"It's a long story, probably one that can wait after the service." I was in no rush to complicate matters all at once. My story was long, and it was complicated, and if I spilled the beans now, there would be too much confusion and too many questions for me to answer all at once before church. But I was able to answer Ishmael's next question.

"So, what are you doing now?"

"I'm in college."

"College! Well, if that doesn't beat everything I've heard! Our Jessica, in college! Somehow I always knew you would get there, but it seemed impossible at the time. We thought you were so beautiful and charming that you'd stay young forever."

"Ah, well, unfortunately not."

"Attending Harvard?"

"Nope. I'm going to a small Liberal Arts college in New Hampshire…about two or three hours north from here."

"So you live in New England, now!" Ishmael looked impressed. "Have you come down this way often?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that—actually, I'm living in the present-day New Bedford, working at the whaling museum."

"Are you? That could account for part of the reason you're here. Past meets present, fantasy meets reality. You were ambassador to both."

"Eh, I suppose I was," I blinked, embarrassed. "And bride," I added, also, for this statement was very true, at least in Middle Earth. "Although I don't think I ever married…"

"You never did, Jessica. Oh, you thought of it, but you never did. Once, you promised your heart to me, to many…but you could never settle down. You had a roving heart."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"Ah, you don't know how much we miss those old times, Jessie. You were the heart and soul of the craft we sailed. You lived in the story as if it were your home sweet home. Will you stay long?"

"Hell, yes. I intend to cruise with y'all on whatever loveboat sails from the dock."

This news pleased Ishmael and Queequeg to no end, and we continued on to the chapel. The service had just begun when we packed ourselves into the seats. We removed our hats and joined in the singing, which was little more than depressing—something about the ribs and terrors of the whale arching over me in dismal gloom. New Bedford was one of the Quaker colonies, where fiery men wrote depressing songs about life because that was part of their dumb religion. It had worked its way into the whaling business because Quakers practically owned the Nantucket companies that sent out ships every year. I knew that wouldn't last, but for now, it was culture and history—part of my culture and history—and I sang the depressing song because I had come home again.

Then Father Mapple came out and began his sermon about Jonah. This was always the part in the movie that I fast-forwarded through because it was long and boring and who really cared because the story of Jonah was so famous that Veggie Tales had turned it into Christian propaganda. It was strange, then, the way I found myself listening with avid interest, perhaps, to my shame, with even more interest than if I'd been listening to a homily in my own church. I was captivated as never before.

Fr. Mapple was about halfway done when he looked down at the congregation, saw me, and nearly had a heart attack. He paused in his talk and peered down, adjusting the spectacles at the end of his nose. But like a true hero, the good priest pressed on with his homily, ended it nicely, and dismissed the congregation.

"Guys, I'll meet you on the docks," I murmured to Ishmael and Queequeg, as Fr. Mapple descended his really cool pulpit and made a beeline for me. The boys got the hint and shuffled out of sight with the crowd. I stayed back and extended my hand, smiling.

"Fr. Mapple!"

"Blow me down, if it ain't young Jessica, back to her old whaling grounds!" the old priest seized me in a bear hug that rivaled Queequeg's. "I knew thee the minute I laid eyes on ye. No other has such eyes as thee; aye, with the light of adventure in her eye, fearless as fire, and still as strong as steel! Aye, in the past ye always wore a man's garb, but now thou art as prettily frocked as any young lass here in New Bedford, and blooming three times as any rose we cultivate in this New England ground!"

"Aw, geez," I mumbled. The compliments were unnecessary, but I didn't mind them. I hadn't heard such praise for a while. In Middle Earth, where you're an empress over an entire land, you have people bowing before you and calling you 'highness' all the time. It gets annoying, and I'm only twenty-two, for cryin' out loud. At the end of the day, I'm just a girl who wants her jeans, a box of Cheez-Its, and _Gilligan's Island_. Here, in New Bedford, the people knew me as that person. I was no empress to them. Just an ordinary girl under extraordinary circumstances.

Fr. Mapple was overjoyed to see me, but unlike Ishmael, he waited patiently while I just told him about my life. I told him that several things had happened. First of all, on my twelfth birthday, I had immediately ditched New Bedford for a galaxy far, far away, and fallen in love with a Jedi Knight. That relationship lasted a few years before Sherlock Holmes came along, and then a blue-eyed, curly-haired hobbit, and a golden Elf Prince. My love life was stretched all over the globe, in all different directions, but Fr. Mapple was pleased to hear that I had never, ever strayed very far from my beloved New Bedford. He was also incredibly pleased to hear that I now had, in the real world, a boyfriend of my own, who was courting me, and hoped to marry me within the next year or so. But the priest was even more interested in the fact that I was now in college, with duties and responsibilities, and a huge thesis. He eagerly inquired to know how I planned to go about researching the spiritual aspects of my novel, and I assured him—to his great relief—that his homily on Jonah would not go amiss. I promised him that it would be a chief light on understanding _Moby Dick_ as a whole—which is why they even bothered to let Gregory Peck play Fr. Mapple in 1998.

"And what art thou up to here in New Bedford?" he enquired kindly.

"I kind of got dumped here. But now that I am here, I think I'll go whaling, like I used to in the past."

Fr. Mapple sighed. "Still, have ye not decided to settle down? Thou hast a rover's heart."

I felt a little irritated that he seemed to voice Ishmael's own words. I was a kind of rover, but it's not like I chose to be that way. "The rover can never settle when she has so much to see. I've missed this place."

"Aye. And we have missed thee. Few knew to where you had gone, and even then, those few could only make guesses. Was there another world that called ye? Thou wert ever needed in other places, Jessica."

"Yes. Several."

"Hast thou married?"

"Mmm, yes."

"And how many husbands dost thou have?"

I counted. "At the moment," I said. "Two."

"So few! Thou didst not return to some of thy worlds, then."

"Nope. The strongest prevailing have been here and in Middle Earth—I'll tell you about it, sometime. But I still have bonds here that need to be acknowledged, even though it seems as though they've been dead for ten years."

"Ye have no dead bonds here, Jessica," Fr. Mapple said firmly. "We have not forgotten thee, even if ye ran and forgot us."

"I didn't forget…I just didn't come back. Forgive me for growing."

"Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, girl. Ye did what was necessary. And ye have not hated us, nor raised a hand against us. I only wish I could then sail with thee, for I've a longing to speak with thee and hear thee speak of thy adventures elsewhere. It will be a lucky ship that takes thee. A lucky captain who gets thee. And a lucky crew which holds ye among them! Hast thou remembered much of the old ways, then?"

"I think so." I carefully began turning over in my head all my experiences, what I had studied from textbooks, and what I was doing now with my thesis. "At any rate, if I've forgotten something, I'll pick it back up sharp. I don't forget anything entirely."

"Good. I am pleased to see thee well and healthy." Fr. Mapple extended his hands over my head and began to pray. "Oh Lord, now bless and watch over this child that she may…"

You get the point. He went on and on for about five minutes, while I patiently stood with my head bowed, listening to this strange little man rattle off invocations and blessings. I thought it kind of strange that I hadn't ever evicted this kind of reaction from Fr. Mapple before—he and I were always on good terms, but on the subject of our relationship, he had rarely spoken to me, and I to him. I guess this part of the book was nearer and dearer than I'd thought. In fact, maybe it had more to do with my thesis than I had originally guessed.

Starbuck and his Thoughts

It was odd, but as I stood singing in chapel today a young lady excused herself and stood beside me. I took little notice of her at first, but I made room for her and continued singing. Strange! As I sang, it was as if roses bloomed beside me; I could smell some lovely perfume that seemed to pervade the little chapel with such heavenly aroma. Strange, too, that a veil seemed lifted from my eyes, and I felt a new confidence, as if such beauty and love arose in my heart, a new passion for my family, my undertakings as a whaler, and my duty as a Christian! Who stood beside me? Christ Himself? I looked, but the face of that lady was covered by a bonnet. Yet her voice was that of an angel. I stopped singing to listen to her. Strange, that I should respond so attentively to mortal music, which even made the dismal hymn seem like a gleaming band of hope. Could I be angry, or distressed? This lady sat so very still beside me all that time, so I hardly gave her another thought. But as Mary and I walked out from chapel, I turned and saw this same lady approach our good Fr. Mapple and greet him with an embrace. I caught a slight glimpse of the smiling face turned towards him. Perhaps a relative? Her eyes danced, and yet I've not seen her before…or have I? I feel as though I should know her.


End file.
